


Warped

by Rosage



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23056972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: When assassins ambush Ferdinand, he grapples with the fact that not every battle is his.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 14
Kudos: 276





	Warped

**Author's Note:**

> I reference Morfis warp beads in an unrelated fic I will post in April. They do what their name implies.

Ferdinand’s torch illuminates an incomplete row of portraits, with the nobles defined by greed and cowardice whisked away. It is not usually him traversing the palace at night. Hubert is too busy; his only presence is in the pouch of Morfis warp beads tucked over Ferdinand’s left breast. Magical retreat, an emergency measure more suited to the man who gave them to him.

He wanders without aim. After a whole day at his desk, his legs screamed at him to stretch. Lately, meetings and paperwork have made him feel like a child again, constantly told to sit still. Nobody needs to tell him now, or to drag him from the stables. Alas, legs still have needs.

With that absurd thought, his light falls on two forms: armored bodies, sprawled across the stone. He digs a hand in his boot and hops toward them. A shadow falls over his path as he pulls out a dagger.

He waves the torch, forcing back a masked figure. In their hesitation, he lunges. Dark energy surges over his shoulder from behind, narrowly missing his ear with a blast of chilly air. It catches him off balance. His torch drops to the floor, and its light extinguishes.

His blade catches another with a clash of metal. Before he can press the offensive, an arm wraps around his neck from behind. He bites down as he stomps on toes, earning a hiss.

How many are there? He could overpower any of them in a fair fight, but this…

An attacker surges toward his front. He twists free and dodges. The blade scratches his arm. The prick of pain barely registers until his vision blurs, like milk’s been poured in his eyes, and vertigo almost pulls him down. Poison.

 _Hubert_.

He reaches inside his shirt. Someone grabs his elbow, trying to stop him.

He extracts the pouch before his arm is wrenched away. The beads spill at his feet, clattering against stone. They crunch as he steps on them.

Light flashes, blinding him as every bit of him seems to compress into itself. A silent scream tears from his throat.

He materializes in his chambers, lit by candelabra. He stumbles beside his bed and braces himself against the wall. Hubert whirls in his chair. As quickly as the warp, he is at Ferdinand’s side, supporting him.

“What happened?” Hubert demands.

“Dropped your work,” Ferdinand says, pointing a floppy hand toward the parchment beside Hubert’s desk. If that is what it is. He blinks, but the room does not sharpen.

 _I look drunk. He will think I used rare magic to leave a party_.

A firm arm around him leads him to sit at the edge of the bed. Hands cup his face, lifting him to look as clearly as he can into Hubert’s eyes. Hubert’s hands trail down until he finds Ferdinand’s injury.

“Who did this?” Hubert asks, low and dangerous as he rolls up Ferdinand’s sleeve. Shivering, Ferdinand strains for clarity.

“Assassins. West corridor.” Gently, Hubert lifts Ferdinand’s arm for inspection. Ferdinand pulls away. “They are still there,” he manages. “Edelgard.”

Hubert freezes. Ferdinand presses a hand against his chest in silent plea.

“I will send someone for you. Please stay here,” Hubert says. Whether he warps or sprints, Ferdinand cannot tell the difference.

He slumps. Unwilling to become more vulnerable, he summons all of his energy not to lie down. The room drops away for an hour that is likely a minute.

Someone enters stealthily, making Ferdinand’s heart thunder harder. He has never seen anyone but Hubert enter this room; that it is Linhardt only helps a little. Wary of making a further fool of himself, Ferdinand proffers his arm and mutters _poison_ , followed by _please_.

As Linhardt draws a finger over a vein on Ferdinand’s wrist, his narration fills in, alike to Ferdinand’s reaction to emptiness.

“Restore is quite a complicated little spell. There has to be a symbol for every possible symptom. It would waste less energy if someone were to develop…”

The sigil grows green in the dim light. A snake seems to sink its fangs into Ferdinand’s wrist, sucking away the poison. The room stops palpitating along with his heart. His vision clears, and with it, his mind’s fog.

“Have the assassins been caught? Is Edelgard all right? Has Hubert—”

“Beats me, beats me, and beats me,” Linhardt says. “Some shadowy figure told me I had to come here and tend to you. Are there really assassins in the palace? Besides the one you sleep with, I mean.”

Ferdinand clutches a handful of cold bed sheet. It is in his nature to warn Linhardt of the danger. Remembering Hubert’s lectures about security risks, he clears his throat. “Do not worry. Thank you for your help.”

Ignoring the veiled dismissal, Linhardt starts examining the wound. He rambles about his research at the palace, and how Ferdinand is lucky he was up late doing it.

“You may return to your research. It is only a scratch,” Ferdinand says. Linhardt rolls his eyes. Among the other reasons Hubert might have sent for him, his willingness to ignore Ferdinand’s orders must have counted.

“I’ll never understand why people have to act tough. I, for one, am glad you’re not bleeding everywhere.”

“Why, thank you, though I am sure you could put a stop to it if I was.”

“Let’s not consider that. I’m not sure they’d let me do research here if I threw up on the prime minister,” Linhardt says, as if he has not dealt with far worse. Has peacetime regressed them all? It is strange enough to sit on a soft mattress, rather than a crate, while Linhardt patches him up. Even with the poison clear, Linhardt’s slow movements only stir up the bees in Ferdinand’s head.

“There,” Linhardt says after cleaning the wound. “Was that so bad? I know you knightly types love your oh-so-heroic sacrifices, but I don’t think an infected scratch will earn you any medals. Not that it would be worth it if it did.” Before Ferdinand can protest, Linhardt yawns loudly enough to eclipse an answer. “Well, I’m useless as a guard, so if you’re not going to die of internal bleeding you didn’t tell me about…”

“Of course. Good luck with your research, and take care to avoid the western corridor.”

Linhardt mumbles about assassins interrupting breakthroughs on his way out.

Ferdinand taps his foot. It is too late to make Hubert coffee for his return, and tea would get cold. He crosses the room to pick up the fallen documents before remembering even he is not to touch Hubert’s desk. He leaves the bedroom to gather some of his own work, then returns with it, in case Hubert warps in.

Work is a lost cause. Why did he not he give Hubert any useful intelligence? What if this is all a trap? Images torment him of Hubert bound and tortured in secret, leaving only a stain beside Edelgard’s corpse as evidence.

In war, Ferdinand would have rushed to fight alongside his partner. He never would have stayed put just because Hubert said to. But it is the most useful thing he can do now, and that burns him. All of his work, just to come full circle to being coddled, kept away from dark mages, tournament opponents paid off to lose to him…

He tugs at his hair. _Those_ days are gone, at least. They must be, after he spent years volunteering for increasingly dangerous missions to prove he could return, and to prove that if he did not, it would be no greater tragedy than any other.

Proving something is no longer a valid motive.

A knock sounds at the bedroom door, which nobody ever knocks on. Ferdinand reaches for his dagger before approaching. This room etched with Hubert’s protections is his safest place, the place the warp beads are anchored—if it were violated, he could not run again, even if he wanted to.

The guard at the door gives one of Hubert’s code words. Ferdinand lowers his arm with an apology. She looks unruffled.

“The culprits have been apprehended. Her Majesty is unharmed, and any victims are alive,” she says. Ferdinand finally breathes.

“Thank goodness. And what of Hubert?”

“Lord Hubert is tying up loose ends.” Dealing with the intruders personally, in one of the deeper dungeons, no doubt. Ferdinand barely has time to thank her before she disappears.

Hubert never asks him to wait up, but Ferdinand cannot even sit down. If shadowy battles are out of his element, torture is out of his sphere entirely, something he cannot fantasize about bursting in to resolve.

A real hour passes this time before Hubert returns. The movement at the door makes Ferdinand twitch again, to his horror. _Not this room, not this man._

“Hubert! Is everything—”

“Taken care of.”

“And are you—”  
  
“Unharmed. You?”

“I am fine.”

Hubert searches Ferdinand’s face. After other dangerous circumstances, they would reach for each other. Ferdinand is not in the mood for comfort, and Hubert is slowly peeling off his black gloves, stepping aside to put them away, away from Ferdinand.

With his hands bare, he holds Ferdinand’s upper arms, his thumb rubbing where Ferdinand is still numb.

“I owe you an apology. They never should have gotten past security. Clearly, I have not done enough,” Hubert says.

“You did not do enough? I did nothing.”

“You stayed safe and gave us warning in time to apprehend the culprits.”

“Ah, so I am qualified to be a watchman.”

“An important job. Perhaps a better one would have prevented this whole incident,” Hubert says. His fingers ghost all the way down to Ferdinand’s fingertips before dropping away. Ferdinand’s chin drops with them.

“You are right. I am sorry for being petulant. It is just… I feel like a coward.”

“Cowards live. Prime ministers must live, if they are useful. All of Fódlan relies on you now.”

So his father had one quality of a minister. Being useful is the improvement Ferdinand can offer. “I will do what is required, as always.”

Hubert must recognize a soldier’s stiff resolve. He sits at the edge of the bed and steeples his fingers, his shoulders slumping in a way they never would outside of these rooms, where he laid them both an anchor.

“You are not at war anymore, Ferdinand. Not even future generations will doubt your prowess as a knight. But enemies in the dark care nothing for prowess, or honor, or anything but snuffing out their target. That means you, for so many more than those who came tonight.”

The mollification and threat cannot distract him from Hubert’s wording. _You are not at war_. Not _we_. 

On the battlefield, there is nothing but arrows volleyed at knights diving from the skies, fireballs crashing through armor like parchment, and his heart galloping in his throat. Nothing but screams drowning out his horse’s hooves against stone, a stench that could be blood or steel or both, the feel of his weapon sinking into flesh. Nothing to cling to but his lance and his reins, and the purple tar that weakens enemies in his path—proof Hubert has his back, as he is meant to shield Hubert’s front. 

“I am your partner,” Ferdinand says. “I should fight at your side.”

“My battles—”

“I know.” He does not need to be patronized further.

He leans down to unbutton Hubert’s collar, his movements and expression all business. Before he can get far, Hubert presses down on Ferdinand’s shoulder, and Ferdinand drops to sit beside him.

They mirror each other’s movements, pulling away cloth to inspect skin with keen eyes and brisk but gentle hands, scanning for any new injuries. It has been some time since they have checked each other simultaneously. Most of the scars are old, familiar to both, though Hubert knows far more stories behind Ferdinand’s. Many of Hubert’s stain him with odd shapes, thin lightning-like webs or grey blotches. One line near his collarbone looks fresh.

“You said you were unharmed,” Ferdinand says.  
  
“It has already been healed.”

Ferdinand sucks in a breath. Again he holds his tongue, but his kiss above the injury is rough, a press that can’t be ignored. It both satisfies and chastises him to find Hubert’s pulse, as rapid beneath Ferdinand’s lips as it has likely been all night.

When he pulls back, he holds Hubert’s gaze. “At least keep me abreast of the investigation, and their fates. Please.”

“I will share all I can.” Hesitation softens Hubert’s face. He slides his hands down Ferdinand’s arms and leans to whisper in his ear. “You may not be grateful you escaped, but...”

Ferdinand rests his cheek against Hubert’s. So many nights, it has been Hubert who warped in while Ferdinand worked by candlelight. Ferdinand only welcomed him, alive and whole, with no questions of how.

“I know.”


End file.
